


Beaten and Bloody

by Azillawn



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: After The Rumble, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, How Do I Tag This, M/M, Mild Blood, i mean obv he's very very pretty we all love dallas winston, jk ponyboy's gay and injured, ok there's a lot of talk about blood in this honestly, ponyboy realizes how pretty dallas is, they're gay and injured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azillawn/pseuds/Azillawn
Summary: ‘The kid fell off his motorcycle, I’m takin’ ‘im to the hospital.’





	Beaten and Bloody

_“I-I ‘dunno man, what, do I look like a doctor? He looks pretty bad to me, I don’t know..”_

_“Follow me.”_

_“Alright...sucker.”_

Words were incomprehensible. Lights were blurred and bright. Movements of oneself and others were slowed and dull. Blood flowed terrifyingly, causing the owner to shudder under its presence. The dreaded red liquid stained blonde hair and slid down pale skin, it’s presence leaving marks to show that something had been there to stain him. Perhaps it held a much bigger meaning, and he cared to know, yet the threatening pounding of his head was enough to halt any hopes of understanding momentarily. That, or perhaps leaning his head back against his car seat was far too occupying to spare anything else a second of consideration. Ponyboy Curtis, having rested his head back, quickly sank into pain and absolute exhaustion. It had been Dallas Winston’s orders, and damn him if he were to deny his orders. However, he quickly began to regret obeying to Dallas’s excuse for driving without caution.

_‘The kid fell off his motorcycle, I’m takin’ ‘im to the hospital.’_

Had the elder drove in a civilized manner, Ponyboy wouldn’t feel so terribly lost in his mind. He wouldn’t feel so empty and so tired. And yet he was, and Ponyboy could no longer find any ounce of energy within him to move. With his head rolled to his right, his grayish-green hues slowly looked Dallas up and down. The boy was beaten and bloody, and perhaps in more ways than simply physical. It caused guilt to rise up in the younger’s chest, and for him to sink down slightly lower in his seat. And yet, he didn’t quite control the movement. He blamed it on the lack of support to hold his body up.

The belt of the car seat now dug against his neck, the trickling of his blood slowly making its way towards the rough material. Ponyboy swallowed thick, his chest rising and falling rather unevenly as the liquid crept down his skin. He detested the flow of his blood from the very top of his head, yet as seconds went by, and everything grew so slow, his attention was driven elsewhere. He didn’t care for the smear of blood against the head of the car seat or the stain on the very back of his shirt. He didn’t care for iron smell that wafted his senses and prior to overwhelmed him. It nearly made him lurch forward and vomit before, yet Ponyboy didn’t favor the thought of moving now. A low, quiet groan rumbled in the younger’s throat. His adams apple bobbed against the belt. The feeling caused Ponyboy to cringe, his whole body tensing and trembling as he inhaled sharply as if he were in pain.

He was.

Ponyboy, whilst momentarily slipping his eyes shut, breathed in and out deeply, his chest stuttering in the quick rise and fall. His breath would then momentarily hitch as the car in which he and Dallas sat in lurched forward, nearly sending the blonde forward. His body was limp, and therefore would not be able to help it. He whined softly at this. His head rolled to the side once more as if he were sleeping, or perhaps passed out cold.

“Dallas,” The younger sighed, the name slipping passed his split, cracked lips. His voice was weak and almost lifeless - as if he were dead -- but dead people couldn’t talk. Ponyboy nearly wished to laugh, and he did, but it came out as a simple wheeze, much to Dallas’s surprise, he assumed. However, the man was only staring ahead at the road, his hands holding onto the wheel tightly. His knuckles were white. They were coated in blood. Ponyboy’s light hues trained on Dallas’s hands. The younger could easily conclude that Dallas must have nearly bashed somebody’s face in, and strangely, the thought didn’t bring him any ounce of discomfort. It wasn’t anything new to him. Dallas could easily kill somebody. Dallas could easily kill him. He had known this for as long as he had known the brunette, and Ponyboy didn’t hate him for that. He couldn’t. He couldn’t _hate_ Dallas Winston.

“Dallas,” Ponyboy repeated. Dallas didn’t acknowledge his voice, and Ponyboy nearly went to speak once more, yet the sudden tightening of his throat and the burn that began in his chest was quick to halt any more words from sounding. And so, the younger remained silent, his gaze settled on the older’s face, taking in the sight of ruffled brown hair and blood-stained skin underneath his half lidded eyes. Dallas’s skin held the same occasional red trail as Ponyboy’s, and Ponyboy nearly felt a sense of pride well up in his stomach. He then watched the flickering of dark brown eyes. The twitching of the corners of Dallas’s mouth. The swipe of his tongue and the capturing of his bottom lip between his teeth. The shaking.

Why was he shaking?

The blonde huffed slowly, the air hitting against his seat belt and blowing back into his pale face due to the sudden lowering of his head against the car seat. His muddy, bloody blonde hair pressed up against the seat, the tufts sprawling out underneath his head. A sort of leverage brought him comfort. He nearly went to shut his eyes - yet he found the sight of Dallas Winston far too intriguing to fall asleep just yet.

He was pretty. Very pretty. Strangely pretty in such a beat up condition.

Finally, Dallas’s attention shifted towards Ponyboy, his body flinching slightly as he came to notice the gaze in which they shared. However, none of them spoke to the other. They remained silent, the only sort of sound around them being the sound of cars that drove beside them and occasional angry honking of a car horn. Ponyboy then hummed softly to himself, his head cocking to the side a little bit so the side of his face pressed against his seat belt. The blood smeared on the gray material and slowly spilled onto the car seat. Or, perhaps the amount of blood was simply an exaggeration on his part. Perhaps he was seeing things. Perhaps he wasn’t bloody, and neither was Dallas. Perhaps the rumble had never happened. Perhaps Johnny never killed Bob Sheldon. _Perhaps Ponyboy was dreaming._

It was nice to be dreaming. He liked dreaming. He liked to sleep.

“You’re beautiful,” Ponyboy murmured.

Maybe he was bleeding.


End file.
